But I am disappointed to see that it doesn’t hit the tree. It misses by several feet.
“I told you this was a waste of time,” I say, annoyed.
“You’re wrong,” he answers. “That was good. The problem was, you didn’t plant your feet. You let the bow carry you. Your strength is in your feet, and in your hips. You have to be rooted. Plant yourself. Try again,” he says, handing me another arrow.
I look over at him, worried.
“What if I miss?” I say.
He smiles. “Don’t worry. I’ll find the arrows. They can’t go far.”
I take another arrow and set it on the string.
“Don’t pull it back all at once,” he says, gently. “That’s it,” he adds, as I begin to pull it back.
The string is more taut this time—maybe because I’m nervous, maybe because I feel more at stake. As I hold it back, I feel the bow
